milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

The funny little man with the egg shaped head has decided today is a good day to take a walk along the lake. He moves with a bit of a waddle, leaning on his walking stick from time to time but never quite relying on it.

At a glance, it would be impossible to tell that this man was one of the great detectives of his day. But then, one would not prove such a thing by his body type or his walk, but by his thoughts. Thoughts that never stop even now.

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Sinric is out by the beach, practising a dance he hasn't danced in many years. One he use to dance for the court. His bare feet trace complex patterns in the sand, music playing from a little machine on his jewelled belt. The metal-shot veils that hang from his slender arms catches the sun in little flashes of gold.

He doesn't see Poirot at first, caught up in the moment.

Poirot sees the man - someone he remembers from a brief conversation some months back - and watches for a while. The dance seems vaguely Near Eastern, and rather complex.

Sinric brings the dance to a finish with a clap, smiling happily. He clearly rather enjoyed that.

He spots Poirot watching and bows with a flourish.

"That was quite interesting. Nijinsky could not do better." Though Poirot's visits to the ballet were few.

"Nijinsky?" Sinric asks, straightening up and stretching. "Is he a dancer from your time?"

"He was the great dancer of my time, though he had not danced in many years when I died. I saw him once and he was the most graceful of men." A rare quality when grace tends to be the province of the ballerina.

"Do you believe the bar might have recordings of him dance? I would love to see him."

"There is probably film. Though perhaps not much as it would have been difficult to film in the theater." Portable cameras of any sort were still a new technology even in Poirot's latter days.

"Then I shall ask the bar." Sinric smiles, tying back his hair. "Thank you for telling me about him."

He tilts his face up to sun. "And what of you, my friend? Are you enjoying the lovely day?"

"I am indeed, yes. The sort of day that reminds me of many excursions to the countryside." Scotland is not quite England, but the two are close enough.

"Will you join me for a while? Or are you bound onward on your walk?" He gestures to the basket waiting on the grass at the edge of the beach. "I have plenty to share if you would like some tea?"

"Tea would be fine, though I will not sit on the grass, if you do not mind." He never cared for grass stains, or the crick in his back.

There's a nice set of rocks to sit on and Sinric has a blanket to unfold over them so Poirot doesn't get his perfectly pressed trousers dirty. He himself is happy to settle on the ground, unpacking an elegant silver and glass thermos and matching glasses.

He also has a box of backlava and Turkish delight to share.

"Ah, I see you come prepared." No simple disposable cardboard cups today. "Where did you get the thermos?"

Sinric pours a glass of apple tea, warm and fragrant. "The bar was kind enough to give it to me. I don't think she wanted me to bring my silver service outside."

"You live in luxury, then, my friend. I had never thought to have a silver service here." It seems unsuited to the afterlife, somehow.

"I did when I was younger. Lady Bar is kind, she spoils me with reminders of better times. Of the gentle joys of my childhood."

"I did not know of such things as a child. We were not poor, but neither were we rich." His father was just a shopkeeper of moderate means.

"A self made man?" Sinric asks, sipping his tea. "For you seem to me a man of means and refinement."

"I had nothing of my own. Not even myself. I was a slave, but the bars of my cage were golden."

"So you made by others and chose to keep that which was good when escaping that which was bad." Slavery being bad, of course.

"But I did make myself to some degree. Brussels offered much. But so did my family."

"The man who made me, or for whom I was made, died of his wounds. Wounds he earned protecting his people." There is nothing but love and admiration in his voice. "He freed me on his death but his son and heir would not have honoured it. And so I ran. To the very end of the earth to make a new life with all he had taught me."

He cocks his head. "Brussels? That is part of what was once Gallia Belgica?"

That draws a smile from Poirot. "It was, yes. Long ago, from my point of view. Belgium went through much since then to be its own nation, and we do not look back all that often on days so far gone." Or at least Poirot does not.

"Where were you a slave?" He knows - having studied some history - that the slavery of some eras was not the brutal and racist thing of the more recent past. This seems to fit with that somewhat less extreme set of conditions.

"What is it like, your Belgium?" Sinric asks with curiosity.

"The Byzantine Empire." Sinric smiles fondly at the memory. "Constantinople. The most beautiful and enlightened city of the world, east or west. I was one of Constantine the Fifth's Little Birds." He makes an artful gesture that shows off his slender wrists. "We sung, danced, entertained his guests, warmed his bed, and kept his council."

"Ah." Poirot, despite his deep Catholic faith, does not concern himself with the sexuality of others. In fact, he considers it wise to be open about such things lest someone attempt blackmail. But at the same time, the tiniest bit of discomfort passes over his face before he simply moves on.

"It is now called Istanbul, your Constantinople, and it is still the most beautiful of cities, if very different. No longer the seat of the Byzantine Empire, no longer even the seat of the Ottoman Empire." No longer even the capital.

"Belgium...it was not so beautiful as your home. And it has suffered twice under the hands of German invaders. I fled them the first time, and am grateful I did not see what they did the second time. But the people are strong and will rebuild."

"So I've heard. It's sad to know it fell to the Turks after so many years of being protected by the Emperors of Byzantium. But I'm glad it's still a place of beauty and learning."

"My Constantine always said that the people of any town, any city, any kingdom of it's strength and pride. It was always the people for whom he worked. I'm glad to know your people are strong."